The dry dock had become a crime scene within minutes. Yellow tape fluttered in the salt-laden breeze, strung across rusted railings and broken pylons. Forensic officers moved like silent ghosts, their flashlights sweeping over the concrete basin where the tide had begun to reclaim the floor. Ma Wai-lam stood at the center of the chaos, her service pistol holstered but her hand still resting on the grip, as if she expected Chan Do to materialize from the shadows at any moment.
Lin Yanting sat on a stack of rotting pallets near the entrance, his head in his hands. The echo of the gunshot still rang in his ears, a phantom vibration that refused to fade. He had not moved since Chan had fled. He had not spoken. He had simply watched as the Ferryman was handcuffed and led away, the old man's face a blank mask of surrender, his worker's coat stained with the grime of a decade's obsession.
Ma approached him, her footsteps deliberate on the cracked concrete. She sat down beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched, and said nothing for a long moment. Then she pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offered one to him. He shook his head.
"You should have told me," she said, her voice low and tired. "About the confession. About Chan Do's father. About any of it."
Yanting let out a hollow laugh. "I didn't know about the confession until he shot it. None of us did."
"But you knew about Chan. You knew he was more than just a source. You knew—" She stopped, searching for words that would not sound accusatory. "You knew you were in love with him."
The word hung in the air, sharp and undeniable. Yanting lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes red-rimmed and hollow. "Is that what this is? Love? I don't even know what to call it. He lied to me, Ma. He used me. And yet, when he ran into that darkness, all I wanted to do was follow him."
Ma sighed, a long, weary exhalation. "That's not love. That's obsession. And obsession is just another word for addiction. You need to let him go. Let the task force handle it."
"The task force is led by Kong Wai-on," Yanting said, his voice sharpening. "The same Kong Wai-on who has been feeding information to the Ferryman for years. If we let him run this investigation, Chan will be dead within forty-eight hours—not because he's guilty, but because Kong needs a scapegoat."
Ma's jaw tightened. She had no rebuttal for that. They both knew the truth: the station was compromised, and the man who had orchestrated the cover-up was still in command.
"What do you want to do?" she asked finally.
Yanting stood up, brushing the grime from his trousers. "I want to find Chan before Kong does. I want to hear his side of the story—all of it. And I want to make sure that the Ferryman's confession doesn't disappear like everything else in this case."
"You're going rogue."
"I'm going to finish what I started."
Ma rose to face him, her eyes blazing with a mix of frustration and reluctant admiration. "Then you're not going alone. I've already burned my bridges by coming here without authorization. If Kong finds out I was at this scene before his forensic team, I'm finished anyway. So we do this together—or not at all."
Yanting looked at her, and for the first time since the gunshot, he felt something other than despair. "Together," he agreed.
They moved quickly, before the official investigation could lock down the dry dock. Ma used her credentials to access the perimeter logs, noting the direction Chan had taken—east, toward the old naval warehouses that lined the coast. The area was a labyrinth of abandoned structures, a no-man's-land that had been slated for redevelopment but never touched. Perfect for a man who wanted to disappear.
They found the first trace of Chan half a mile from the dry dock: a discarded linen jacket, the same one he had worn at the charity gala, now torn and smeared with mud. Yanting picked it up, his fingers brushing against the damp fabric. It still carried the faint scent of sandalwood—the same scent that had lingered in the noodle shop, in the archives room, in every moment they had shared.
"He's heading for the water," Yanting said, his voice tight. "He's always been drawn to the water."
They followed the trail through a maze of derelict warehouses and overgrown lots, their flashlights cutting through the pre-dawn darkness. The sky was beginning to lighten on the horizon, a pale grey that promised rain. The tide was still rising, lapping at the edges of the shoreline, swallowing the debris that had accumulated over decades of neglect.
At the end of a narrow pier, they found him.
Chan Do stood at the very edge, his silhouette framed against the grey water. He was barefoot, his shirt soaked through, his hair plastered to his forehead. In his hand, he still clutched the pistol—not raised, not aimed, just held loosely at his side, as if he had forgotten he was carrying it.
Yanting stopped at the pier's entrance, Ma close behind him. He raised a hand to signal her to hold back, then took a slow step forward.
"Chan," he called out, his voice carrying across the water. "Don't do anything stupid."
Chan turned, and Yanting's heart lurched at the sight of his face. The composed mask was gone, replaced by a raw, unfiltered grief that seemed to age him by a decade. His eyes were red, his cheeks streaked with tears that had long since dried.
"Stupid," Chan repeated, his voice cracking. "That's what this has all been, hasn't it? A ten-year exercise in stupidity. I chased a ghost, built an archive of lies, and fell in love with a detective who was supposed to put me in handcuffs." He let out a bitter laugh. "I think I've earned the right to be stupid one last time."
Yanting took another step closer. "Put the gun down. We can talk about this. We can figure it out together."
"Together?" Chan's voice rose, edged with hysteria. "You want to be together? After everything? I lied to you, Yanting. I knew about the confession. I knew my father was complicit. I've known for six months—I found a copy in Uncle Kwok's archive before I ever showed it to you. I didn't tell you because I wanted to see how far you would go. I wanted to know if you would choose me over the truth."
The words hit Yanting like a physical blow. He had suspected, but hearing it confirmed—hearing that Chan had been testing him, manipulating him, using his own feelings as a lever—was a different kind of pain. It was not the pain of betrayal. It was the pain of knowing that he would have failed the test.
"Did you get your answer?" Yanting asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Chan looked at him, and in that gaze, Yanting saw the same conflict he had seen in the dry dock—the war between the man who wanted to be loved and the man who believed he did not deserve it.
"Yes," Chan said. "You chose me. You stepped between me and Uncle Kwok. You called me by name when the police arrived, not 'the suspect.' You chose me, even when I had given you every reason not to." He paused, his voice breaking. "And that's why I can't stay. Because if I stay, I'll drag you down with me. I'll become the anchor that drowns you."
Yanting took another step, close enough now that he could see the tremor in Chan's hands, the way the pistol wobbled in his grip. "Then don't stay. Run. Disappear. I'll tell them I lost you, that you escaped into the water. I'll take the blame."
Ma's voice cut through from behind him, sharp with warning. "Yanting. Don't."
But Yanting ignored her. He was focused entirely on Chan, on the man who had become the center of his world without his permission.
"Run," Yanting repeated. "And I'll find you. I always will."
Chan stared at him, and for a moment, something flickered in his eyes—hope, perhaps, or the ghost of it. Then he looked down at the pistol in his hand, turned it over, and did something that Yanting did not expect.
He dropped it into the water.
The pistol sank with a soft plunk, disappearing into the murky depths. Chan let out a long, shuddering breath, and his shoulders sagged as if a weight had been lifted from them.
"I'm not running," he said quietly. "I'm tired of running. I've been running for ten years, and it's led me nowhere. If I'm going to face the consequences of what I've done—and what I haven't done—I'd rather face them with you beside me."
Yanting closed the remaining distance between them and pulled Chan into an embrace, fierce and desperate. He could feel Chan's heart pounding against his chest, could feel the damp cold of his shirt, the tremor in his frame. He held on as if letting go would mean losing him forever.
Ma lowered her weapon, her expression unreadable. "Well," she said, her voice flat. "This is going to be a hell of a report."
The sky opened up, and rain began to fall—a gentle drizzle that quickly intensified into a downpour, washing away the salt and the grime and the residue of the night's violence. Yanting and Chan stood together on the pier, the water rising around them, and for a brief moment, the world felt suspended—a frozen frame in a film that had not yet reached its final reel.
But the world did not stay frozen.
In the distance, the wail of sirens cut through the rain, growing louder. Yanting turned and saw the flashing lights approaching along the coastal road—not one, but half a dozen vehicles, all heading toward the pier.
"Kong," Ma said, her voice tight with urgency. "He must have tracked the gunshot. Or one of the uniforms called it in."
Yanting looked at Chan, his mind racing. There was no time to hide him, no time to fabricate an escape. The only option was to face the music.
"Stay with me," Yanting said, gripping Chan's arm. "No matter what happens, stay with me."
Chan nodded, his face pale but resolute. "I'm not going anywhere."
The vehicles pulled up at the pier's entrance, and Superintendent Kong Wai-on emerged from the lead car, his face a thundercloud. He was flanked by half a dozen officers, their weapons drawn, their faces set in grim anticipation.
"Lin Yanting," Kong barked, his voice carrying over the rain. "Step away from the suspect. Now."
Yanting did not move. "He's not a suspect, Superintendent. He's a witness. He's been cooperating with the investigation."
Kong's eyes narrowed. "Cooperating? He ran from the scene of an armed confrontation. He fired a weapon. He's a fugitive, and you're harboring him." He gestured to the officers, who began to fan out along the pier. "Arrest them both."
Ma stepped forward, her hands raised. "Sir, with respect, you need to listen to what we've discovered. There's evidence of a conspiracy within the station—"
"I don't want to hear it," Kong cut her off, his voice cold. "You're both off the case. Your badges, your weapons—hand them over. Internal Affairs will sort it out."
Yanting felt Chan tense beside him. He could feel the desperation radiating off him, the urge to bolt, to escape into the water and disappear. But he also felt Chan's resolve, the decision he had made on the pier, to face whatever came.
"Don't," Yanting whispered. "Don't give him the satisfaction."
Chan met his eyes, and in that gaze, Yanting saw acceptance. Chan was not going to run. He was going to stand, to face the consequences, to trust that the truth would eventually come out.
Kong's officers closed in, their hands reaching for handcuffs. Yanting raised his hands slowly, his eyes never leaving Kong's.
"You're making a mistake," Yanting said, his voice calm and steady. "And when the truth comes out—and it will come out—you'll be the one standing trial."
Kong smiled—a thin, predatory smile that held no warmth. "I don't think so, Detective. You see, I've already made arrangements. The confession that the Ferryman gave you? It's already been altered. By the time it reaches the prosecutor's office, it will say exactly what I need it to say—that Chan Do was the mastermind, and you were his accomplice."
Yanting's blood turned to ice. Kong had prepared for this. He had been one step ahead the entire time.
The handcuffs clicked around Yanting's wrists. Ma was cuffed beside him, her face pale with fury. And Chan—Chan was being led away by two officers, his head bowed, his eyes closed.
As they passed each other, Chan's hand brushed against Yanting's—a fleeting touch, barely perceptible, but enough to convey everything that could not be said.
Yanting watched them take him away, and in that moment, he made a silent vow: he would find a way to clear Chan's name, to expose Kong's corruption, to bring the truth to light. No matter how long it took, no matter how deep the conspiracy ran.
The rain continued to fall, washing the pier clean of the night's evidence. But some stains could not be washed away so easily.
And somewhere in the city, the Ferryman's archive was still intact—a repository of secrets that Kong did not know existed. Yanting had one card left to play, and he was going to play it.
But first, he had to survive the night in a holding cell.
The sirens faded into the distance, and the pier was left empty, save for the rain and the rising tide.
The crossing was not over. It had only just begun.
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